


i'd cast a spell

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Body Image, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, stretch marks, weight loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I, um...I-I was pretty big, before. Remember?”</p><p>“Not that it's ever mattered to me at all, but yeah, I remember,” Pete says with a nod.</p><p>“Well, even though I managed to lose the sixty pounds, I, uh, I-I didn't lose...everything.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'd cast a spell

**Author's Note:**

> Random little thing that popped into my head a few days ago and wouldn't shut up. These two are just so lovely to write. Hope you like :)

_Holy shit holy shit holyfuckingshitohmygod this is happening it's actually happening oh my GOD_

Patrick can't really help that his mind is whirring like a hurricane. Usually he's able to calm himself down enough to form a coherent thought, but at this particular moment that task seems utterly impossible. And he really doesn't care. Honestly, what sane human being would be able to think straight while Pete Wentz is kissing them this desperately? Patrick's vaguely impressed that he's still able to form words in his head instead of muffled moans and gasps, like the ones escaping his mouth when he breaks for air. Pete's hand slips under the waist of Patrick's jeans to skim across the pale, smooth skin of his ass, and Patrick chokes out a loud groan into the darker man's mouth. Pete just laughs low in his throat and continues to ravish his friend's swollen lips, fingers still roaming. Patrick doesn't protest.

They're tangled together in the hotel elevator headed up to the fourteenth floor, singer and bassist, head and heart, body and soul. This is the first time in their month-long relationship that they've gone this far—knowing Pete, Patrick had expected to have at least exchanged a few handjobs by now. They've both wanted this so much for so long that it's truly surprising how long they've waited to get into each other's pants, and the time spent apart during the band's hiatus most likely magnified that need. Jerking off to thoughts of Pete's tattoos and Pete's mouth and Pete's whiskey-colored eyes has sufficed for the past three weeks, but Patrick needs more, and he needs it _right the fuck now_ or he's gonna start undoing the zipper of Pete's too-tight grey jeans before they even make it to their room.

“Got us a single,” Pete had whispered in his ear when the band had arrived here this morning. That knowledge had been enough to make Patrick blush and choke on his next breath. The very thought of sharing a bed with Pete for the first time, of _finally_ traversing beyond their teenage-style kissing and groping, was almost too delicious to even comprehend.

Now that it's actually about to happen, it's even more tantalizing. Suddenly even more desperate than before, Patrick moves his hands from where they're fisted in Pete's T-shirt to the sides of Pete's face, one caressing his cheek and the other drifting up into thick black hair and tugging as he tilts his head to deepen their kiss further. Pete releases a breathy moan and gives Patrick's ass a firm squeeze. “Really are impatient, aren't you?” he manages to ask.

“Says the guy who already has his hand in my fuckin' pants,” Patrick replies with a quick laugh. He pulls away and takes in the sight of Pete before him: flushed, panting, and sweaty, with eyes blackened by lust and hair skewed in every direction. Patrick's seen him like this a few times before—he's inadvertently caught Pete in some very compromising situations many times over the past decade—but the knowledge that it's _him_ who caused it this time, it's _Patrick Stump_ that's making Pete moan and whine and sweat, is almost too good to be true.

Patrick stares at him in awe for several long moments, his heartbeat steadily accelerating. “God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs before he realizes he's even opened his mouth. Fuck, his voice is already wrecked and they're both still completely clothed.

Pete smiles wide and crazy. “Not nearly as beautiful as you right now, 'Trick.”

“Shut up.” And they're kissing again, and it's wonderful, but _when the hell is this thing gonna reach the fourteenth floor I mean for fuck's sake—_

As if on cue, there's a distant ding, and the elevator doors whoosh slowly open. The two men can hardly bear to separate from each other long enough to make it down the hall to room 1412, but they manage it, and Patrick scrambles to fish the key card out of Pete's back pocket. He tries to swipe it without removing his mouth from Pete's, but his hand is shaking so hard that he can't aim very well so he has to break away for a couple seconds. Pete just moves his lips and teeth to the side of the younger man's neck without missing a beat.

Then they're in their room and the door slams shut when Pete shoves Patrick against it, still nibbling. “Want you so bad,” he mutters against the skin he's debauching. “Fuck, Patrick, Patrick, want you, need you, can't believe this is real.” He sucks a small bruise on his friend's collarbone where he's (mostly) sure a shirt (or maybe a scarf) will hide it.

“I know,” Patrick gasps out, head thrown back, one hand on Pete's shoulder, the other tangled in his dark hair. “Can't believe it either. Need to feel you so bad...” Reluctantly, he shoves Pete back a few inches and hikes up the black graphic tee he's wearing. Pete raises his inked arms over his head, eyes boring into Patrick's, and the singer tugs off the offending piece of fabric and tosses it somewhere near the TV. Immediately he takes advantage of the newly-revealed tanned skin and runs his shaking hands over every last inch of it; he even works up the courage to lean in and lick a hot stripe over one nipple, reveling in the hitch of breath the simple action causes.

Eventually they move away from the door and Pete knocks Patrick's ever-present fedora off his head and onto the floor, where it lies forgotten. He wraps his arms around Patrick and presses him to his own chest, kissing him slowly. The bed is mere feet away, dressed in plain white linens that are simply asking to be defiled like a bride on her wedding night.

Patrick's so caught up in the sensation of holding, touching, kissing, _loving_ Pete that he barely notices when the bassist's calloused fingers start pulling up the hem of his red polo. Before it's even halfway up his belly, Patrick breaks the kiss and shoves Pete's invasive hands away on reflex, the thrill of lust morphing quickly into that of panic.

“Whoa, whoa,” Pete says, immediately removing his hands and holding them up innocently. Concern forms a crease in his forehead. “What's wrong, babe?”

“I...” Patrick isn't sure how to articulate his sudden new emotions without sounding completely opposed to this whole situation. This is the first time he's been this intimate with anyone since before _Soul Punk_ was released, since before his weight loss, and no one—not even his band—has seen him shirtless since he was nearly 200 pounds. By all rights he should be stripping like a whore right now, eager to show off his new-and-improved slender figure, except...

“You're not regretting this, are you?” Pete sounds almost terrified.

“No! No fucking way, Pete, I'm dying to get my hands on you, it's just—dammit.” The blonde hesitates before walking over and sitting on the foot of the bed, hands folded in his lap, twiddling his thumbs nervously. _Talk about a mood killer. One second I've got my tongue down his throat and now I'm all insecure. Typical._ “I, um...I-I was pretty big, before. Remember?”

“Not that it's ever mattered to me at all, but yeah, I remember,” Pete says with a nod.

“Well, even though I managed to lose the sixty pounds, I, uh, I-I didn't lose...everything.”

Pete takes a step closer to him and crouches down in front of him so their eyes are level. Patrick can't help but rake an envious gaze over his friend's toned, sculpted torso, the smooth skin completely unmarred and just begging to be touched. “What're you talking about?” Pete asks, sounding nearly as nervous as Patrick feels.

“I...there's a few...lines. On my stomach and sides. Some on my legs, too.” The singer feels his face flushing scarlet and he feels even more dumb now, even though this is Pete he's talking to.

Pete appears confused for a few more seconds, then his eyes widen and he sucks in a stunned gasp. Reaching out and grabbing Patrick's sweaty hands, he shakes his head in denial. “No,” he murmurs, and _is he tearing up?_ “No, Patrick, dear, sweet, precious Patrick, y-you didn't—”

“What? OH! Oh, no, no, Pete, no, they're not scars.” A hand tugs out of Pete's grip and finds its way to the side of Pete's face. Patrick looks him in the eyes, sick at the thought of what Pete must have concluded. “God, no, I've never—just, no. They're stretch marks.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Faded ones. And some not-so-faded.”

Pete closes his eyes and sags with relief, resting his cheek on Patrick's thigh. “Fuck, you scared the shit outta me,” he breathes, then glances up again. “You're afraid I'm not gonna like how you look, is that it?”

 _It's the only thing I've ever really been afraid of. You're a fucking male model and I'm the bald, sweaty, chubby dude you've somehow become ensnared by, and I'm always afraid you're gonna find someone else, someone better, prettier, someone you deserve more—_ “Yes.”

“Don't be.” The bassist rises up to capture Patrick's mouth in a slow, deep, reassuring kiss. When he breaks away, he's smiling softly, nothing but adoration in his dark eyes. “'Trick, you're the most gorgeous, desirable, attractive person I've ever met in my entire fucking life, and I get around. You smile like August, you sing like May, and your face is the brightest goddamn July sun I've seen. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you cut your fucking breakfast fruit in the morning, I just—I've never been able to take my eyes off you. Ever. Even when you're just waking up in the morning and your hair's all sticking up and your eyes are all squinty, you're just...” He pauses, touching their foreheads gently together to punctuate his point. “You're the closest thing to perfection that I have ever encountered, and _nothing—_ especially not a few squiggly lines on your skin—is ever gonna make me think otherwise.”

Patrick stares at him for several long moments, incredulous at his own luck. How did he ever settle for less than Pete? “I love you,” he murmurs, feeling it bursting out of his heart and filling the small hotel room around them.

“Ditto,” Pete replies with another quick kiss, and that's all Patrick needs. “Now where were we? Ah, yes, I believe we were about to have some mind-blowingly epic sex.”

“Wouldn't wanna interfere with that,” Patrick snickers and falls back, pulling Pete onto the bed above him.

###

 


End file.
